


Cucumber Sandwich

by Teaandcakes



Category: Cucumber (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battle of the Pants 2015, Crack, Explicit Sex, Freddie's White pants of Sex, Humour, Jealous!John, John Watson's Red pants of Sex, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, No Mary, No baby, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock SHOULDNT scheme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this small fic, John has to contend with Freddie Baxter arriving at 221B Baker Street after his flouncing exit from Henry's house. </p><p>John is not a happy bunny....more of a simmering ball of jealousy? But maybe the golden boy has a lesson to teach John about accepting who you are. And maybe John should not assume that beauty equals happiness?</p><p>STANDALONE SHERLOCK X CUCUMBER (channel 4 series) FIC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

John turned his key in the lock and thumped his way into the gloomy hallway of 221 Baker Street. Not for the first time, he hummed in approval at the lack of junk mail festooning the floor, which most houses split into flats are characterised by. Mrs Hudson was very hot on such matters and could smell a pizza leaflet being folded at fifty yards. The postman was terrified of her. 

John's thumping gait was down to the Tesco bags, containing various essential groceries, plus a couple of totally non essential items which had been requested by Sherlock for some experiment or other. Sherlock hadn't given him a list, but instead just shouted items at him, usually through the bathroom door when John was either taking a dump or having a sly wank in the shower. Neither situation made for feelings of fondness towards Sherlock, but it hadn't stopped him from imagining his flatmate in flagrante in the final moments before he came in the shower. He didn't know why that always happened. He wasn't gay. 

............

As he climbed the seventeen smooth oak stairs towards 221B, John heard muffled voices coming from within. Hmm. Maybe a client? He could hear Sherlock's low baritone but the other voice was softer, with a slight northern accent. A young man's voice, characterised by bravado masking fear.

The door was ajar, and John walked into the flat. 

Sherlock was sitting in his usual black leather and chrome chair. His visitor, his client, was sitting in John's chair. That in itself was unusual. Normally clients were relegated to the sofa where they could be interrogated while trying to manage the sensation of the stray spring that threatened to impale the unwary. It had been like that ever since John had come home from work one day to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa and a gouge mark in the table which had made Mrs Hudson extra bang-y and crash-y with her dusting (she did apologise about the hideous ornament of the red setter with the googly eyes and visible glue blobs, but Sherlock had just looked sad and about eight and spent the rest of the night piecing his treasure back together again. 

There was something about this client. He was a young man, very young, maybe early twenties. He wasn't tall, but his frame was beautifully proportioned and his floppy blonde hair and perfect features were only enhanced by a flawless complexion. John felt as though he might not like him much, aware as he was of his greying hair, slight tummy pudge and ever heavier bags under his eyes. 

Beautiful Boy was also providing more ammunition for John to dislike him on sight because he was sitting forward, chin resting on his hand, and staring into Sherlock's face with the sort of eye-fucking directness that John had only ever seen when Murray and he had ventured into a pub in Wardour Street back in the Nineties, still in Army fatigues and John had been cornered in the gents by a rather intoxicated man who insisted that his dick would actually wither away to nothing, if John didn't get his military lips around it and suck him until his brains came out. 

Sherlock was leaning forward too. Unacceptable. Clearly he was trying to be polite. But it was ok now. John Watson could deal with this kind of harassment. Plenty of clients fancied their chances with Sherlock. They all got short shrift. 

...........

John cleared his throat rather melodramatically. 

Sherlock looked as if he'd been stung, and leapt to his feet. 

'Ah, John. Excellent. Meet Freddie, Freddie Baxter. Freddie, this is the famous John Watson, my blogger.'

Freddie smiled a small slow smile. John knew he was making a sour face, but didn't care. 

'John, how lovely to meet you. Sherlock's been telling me all about you.' 

A hand was extended. It was graceful and pale, and the fingers were manicured, the nails sparkling with health and the kind of great genes that few are blessed with and which you can't buy.

John scowled. 

'Hmm. Yes. You have come to consult about a problem?'

Freddie laughed, and even his laugh tinkled like a fucking bell. Perfect teeth, perfect gums. John wanted to punch him. Why was he laughing? 

Sherlock shook his head. 

'Freddie's the son of an old friend of Mummy's. He's finished postgrad fine art and is working as an intern in an achingly daub-y gallery in Dean Street. She's made me agree that he can stay here, his people are the worthy but penniless arm of their clan and Northern to boot, and the internship is unpaid.'

'Not a farthing' added Freddie, helpfully. 

Yeah, thought John. As if you couldn't find a mate's floor to kip on. But you fancied something a bit more comfortable. 

Only as this thought crossed his mind did he address the obvious issue with having this angelic nemesis floating through the flat. 

'Ummm. Yeah, no problem, you can invite who you like. But where's he going to sleep? There's only two bedrooms.' 

'He will sleep in my bed, of course', said Sherlock, riffling through some papers in a distracted manner. I only use it about half the time.'

John stared at him, incredulous. Fucking Floofie Hair? In Sherlock 'Married to my Work''s bed? He shook his head in disbelief.

'Yeah... Umm, ok. So, the half the time you are using it then?'

Sherlock looked up at him with the kind of slightly unfocused stare that was massively disconcerting to the uninitiated to his Ways. 

'Then there will be two people in the bed, John. It's only for a few weeks, and Freddie has offered to paint Mrs Hudson what she charmingly refers to as "a Muriel" on the wall of her sewing room. She's quite taken to him, so will be cross if you are nasty to him.'

Freddie looked appropriately wobbly-lipped at the idea of someone being unkind to him. Like a soft silky puppy. 

John had met boys like Freddie before. And he didnt like this one bit. He had no idea what Sherlock was playing at, but he smelled trouble, and smelled it big. He tried to smile at Adonis junior but it came out as more of a snarl. 

'Can I get anyone any tea?' 

It was his turn to slam the crockery. Which he did. With enthusiasm.


	2. The Plan begins....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Fredddie embark on their plan to make John jealous. But Freddie is less disciplined than Sherlock expected. Meanwhile, John is starting to get very nosy and not liking what he is seeing....

The next morning, John was late for work. He hadn't overslept, he got up when his alarm rang at six. But by the time he'd dragged on some underpants and a dressing gown and stretched a bit (feeling old and uninspired by the prospect of a day doing flu jab clinic with screaming kids and old people wearing so many clothes that by the time the needle could reach their bare arm he was already late for the next patient), he needed to get in the shower and shave and grab some toast and go. 

Only one problem. It was young, it was lithe, and it was singing in the shower. "Sing too, do you", thought John darkly. "Of course you do. Probably balance biscuits on your nose too while singing the Marseillaise. It's not your fault, I know, but I really would like you to disappear."

Freddie seemed to have no intention of disappearing from the bathroom, let alone from John's entire life. The singing turned to a whistling that competed with that bit in Roxy Music's version of Jealous Guy where there's a whole verse of him. Bryan Ferry. Whistling. John had memories of lying on his bed, aged about thirteen, and wanting to be either Bryan Ferry or James Bond. It was odd, because when he fell asleep listening to the record, he wasn't either of them, but was in a dark corner of a room with one or the other of them. Good job he wasn't gay. He was going steady with Annabelle, who was a year older than him and precociously pneumatically blessed. 'Well-developed' was how he heard a female PE teacher describe Annabelle. 

He'd met her once, years later, only to discover that she had surgically removed the hooters from heaven and gone to live in an earth ship community in dwellings made of old tyres filled with mud on a boggy bit of waste ground between Scratchwood services and the railway sidings. With the lady PE teacher. Apparently, love means playing netball in dreadlocks in the brambles and the KFC wrappers litter, which made John think that love maybe wasn't all it was cracked up to be, in the end.

For now, he was hammering on a bathroom door. 

'Hi there. Do you think you'll be out in a minute? I'll be late for work if I don't get in the shower now?' 

That laugh again. Like summer rain, gentle and refreshing. Or like a wind chime over the neighbour's fence, just plain fucking annoying. John chose to view it as the latter. 

'Oh, sorry. Yeah, I'll probably be about twenty minutes?' 

Fuck. He really was going to be late now. Why on earth does he need another twenty minutes, he's already been in there that long? 

'I don't mean to be personal, but you've already had a long time in there, mate? Shaving and showering can't take that long, surely?' 

Cue The Laugh. 

'It does if you're shaving everything, John.' The words were delivered with cat-got-the-cream insouciance. 

John frowned, then his mouth dropped opens 

'Everything? What do you mean, everything?' 

'Hmm, fairly obvious, I'd have thought? Back sack crack, chest, underarms, face, legs. Anywhere else I can find anything to shave. Let me know if you think of anywhere else?' 

John thumped his head back against the corridor wall. Brilliant. He was going to be late because Freddie Baxter, Prince of Twink, was shaving his bollocks all over John's pristine bathroom floor. This was NOT why he'd bought a steam mop from Lakeland. 

He returned to the door. 

'Do you do that all the time?' 

'Not all the time. When I want to feel smooth. Or I want to make a special effort. You know, to a guy. If he's been good to me.'

You little tosser, John thought. 

He was late for work. 

Not because he'd showered, the great crested razor-fancier was still in the bathroom when he left, now humming show tunes and John never managed to get in the bathroom. No, Doctor Watson was late because he'd been Googling this Freddie, this cuckoo in their previously happy nest. 

It made for interesting reading. 

He'd also sneaked into Sherlock's room to scrutinise the evidence of last night's sleeping arrangements. Frustratingly, there weren't neat indentation outlines of human forms in the bed, instead there was a mess of sheets and blankets, all messy. Which meant either Freddie had spent the night alone in the bed, and had a restless sleep, or he slept with Sherlock, and their activities created the twist of sheets and blankets. 

He found no evidence of condoms, nor could he find suspicious stains, and the lube he knew Sherlock owned but had only ever seen used for non-sexual scientific experiments was apparently untouched. 

He was going to monitor more closely tonight. It never occurred to him that there was anything inappropriate about his interest in this subject, that it might be none of his business. He didn't trust Freddie and he didn't like him getting close to Sherlock. As a friend, that was reasonable. Wasn't it?

...............

Sherlock was busy with a pedestrian case that afternoon for Lestrade. It was too dull for him to have bothered with normally, but Freddie had enthused about how he'd "love to see Sherlock work", and Sherlock had hummed a bit and preened quite a lot and then taken the case. John was at the surgery and an appreciative audience was what Sherlock craved. He would make do with Freddie. 

In the end, Freddie was more of a hindrance than a help. He draped himself over the squad car bonnet for half an hour, flirted with all the junior officers regardless of sex and then, after a brief intense exchange on Tindr, left while Sherlock was taking scrapings of some mould from behind a drainpipe. 

Sherlock looked puzzled that his resulting mould deduction which was vital to the case, would not, after all, be heard by his young protégée. But the mould was absolutely fascinating and really quite uncommon so he turned back to his work. 

..............

Freddie reminded Sherlock of himself, in some ways. Not the casual sex via Tindr hookups, obviously, Sherlock couldn't think of anything he'd like less than that, all that awkwardness and zipless fucking held no attraction for him, but the restless distraction, the affectation of not caring, the often unkind or manipulative words, those he could see in himself. 

Freddie and Sherlock, two graceful men who had the world at their feet, theirs for the taking - and neither of them had a first fucking clue about what to do with it once they had it. So they moved on. Freddie physically, from place to place, from partner to casual partner, from gender to gender. He sang for his supper with his beauty, but the shadow of his future when the beauty faded was a small insistent voice whispering in his ear. Sherlock, by contrast, addictively, from Redbeard to Mycroft, from schoolwork to drugs, from cases to John Watson. 

He didn't know what to do with John Watson either, because he didn't have him. Cocaine was easy. People sold it and you bought it and then you injected it. A transaction, satisfying if only for a while. But John was behind a glass panel of his own creation. Sherlock could see him, but not touch him. And John was oblivious to this, how much it mattered, how much damage his denial of what was obvious to everyone else, was doing to them both. 

Then again, Sherlock wasn't sure what he would do with John if he ever did have him. But he thought getting him would be a start. And the best way to do that, would be to show John just how jealous he could get, because in the end, if he didn't care, he wouldn't be jealous, would he. Logical Sherlock was treating this like one of his puzzles, because it was the only approach he had left. 

Freddie was up for the plan. Sherlock hoped it would work quickly. Freddie seemed more enthusiastic than Sherlock was comfortable with, especially with respect to the more physical side of the Make John Jealous plan. 

Freddie was very young, and had plenty of issues and baggage, but Sherlock needed someone really young and really handsome, so that John would be guaranteed to be super jealous. He was attractive, of course, too, although not really in the sense that Sherlock's very specific libido was naturally wired for. For Sherlock, the idea of smooth skinned beauty and youth was no competition to the idea of a war hardened man, flawed and contradictory. Able to heal one minute, and kill the next. A man who had nightmares about the war, but who missed it so badly he shook physically with the loss. 

...............

When John got home from work that night, the building seemed quiet. He climbed the stairs, not aware of holding his breath, but found that he was all the same. The door of 221B was closed but not locked, and he walked in, finding Sherlock's Belstaff neatly hung up instead of its usual place on the sofa, and a leather jacket belonging to Loves Young Dream next to it. 

There was no one in the living room, so John knocked quietly at Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock came to the door, dressed in shirt and trousers, his hair somewhat dishevelled. 

'John. Excellent. I will be out for tea in just a few moments. We need to go over to Barts this evening, Molly has some results from the beetles in Madingley's ears. They're really quite rare!' 

'Fine. Yeah. I -um. What about Freddie?' 

'Oh, he's asleep still. Look.'

And sure enough, there he was, stretched out on the bed, snoring very quietly and politely, perfect body a silent taunt. 

John scowled. 'He looks exhausted, I didn't think crime scenes were so tiring, assuming he tagged along with you today.'

A quizzical and slightly pleased look crossed Sherlock's face. 

'No, that wasn't demanding, he's probably just tired from all the vigorous sex today. I wouldn't have thought it would have worn him out, but being an active top he does get to do a lot of the work.' 

Smoke coming out of ears is, of course, a purely literary metaphor. If it hadn't been, the smoke alarm on the landing outside 221B would have been waking Mrs H from her soother-induced slumber. 

John made a noise that sounded somewhere between a lawnmower that won't start in spring, and a baby goat that's eaten something unarguably indigestible.

And then the John fury smile appeared. 

"Brilliant", thought Sherlock, mentally ticking off Stage 2 - Make John do The Death Smile/Snarl in his game plan. "This is going well". 

And he hadn't even had to lie yet. John didn't like him lying, mind you, John didn't seem too keen on any of this. 

'I'll be out in five minutes, John. Maybe make a flask of tea? Molly's coffee machine is a horror of the first degree. Oh, yes, I agree, these wooden floors ARE very noisy if you tread hard enough.....'

..............

Once John had gone, slamming the door delightfully, Sherlock nudged Freddie. 

'You can stop pretending now, Sleeping Beauty.'

'Mmm.' Freddie buried his head in the pillow, and then suddenly, before Sherlock took in what was happening, he sat up and drew Sherlock's lips to his own. It was some seconds before he drew away once again, and he looked very happy with events. 

'Freddie', muttered Sherlock in a warning tone. 'This is just about making John jealous. There's no need to carry things over into times he can't see.' 

Freddie ignored him completely, running a finger down the front of the straining buttons of Sherlock's shirt. 

'But you're so pretty, Sherlock. And John is no fun, none at all. I'm fun, and I can show you things that will make your mind blow.' 

He brought his mouth to Sherlock's ear and started to nip and lick it teasingly. Then he whispered in a low voice that sent a bolt of fear and arousal to Sherlock's groin. 

'I'm going to fuck you, Sherlock Holmes, fuck you long and fuck you hard. And I'm going to make it so good that you won't even remember John Watson's name, and all you'll be able to scream is mine.' 

Sherlock shook his head. It forced those small, perfect teeth away from his ear. 

'Not going to happen, Freddie. This is all about John.'

'Really, Sherlock? Is it really all about John?' A hand slid down to Sherlock's crotch, and gripped right through his trousers and pants, highlighting the fact that Sherlock's traitorous flesh was, at the least, half hard. 

Freddie laughed and let Sherlock push him aside and leap up from the bed.

'I'm starting to wonder if this was a mistake', Sherlock spat, as he went to finish dressing. 

'I've been many people's mistake, Sherlock. It never stops them coming back for more...'

Sherlock made no reply, just made his exit with as much dignity as he could. Not much, in other words.

What exactly had he got himself into here?


	3. The Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get artistic. There are leather shorts and glitter. John's still not happy.

John was on duty at the clinic again the next day, so he had no chance to inspect the bedclothes in his flatmate's bedroom. (That sounded bad, right? Okay, so, maybe it was unusual behaviour, but he was doing it because he was Concerned about the matter of Sherlock's Personal Personage. So that was Okay). He had the distinct impression that whilst Sherlock had all the technical specifics to hand, as it were, his speciality was very much in the theoretical side of the mechanics. More of a D Phil rather than a D Eng (of the D). 

Hence, he felt responsible, like a good friend and a good doctor should, that Sherlock should not be taken advantage of. Especially not by sugar plums in micro briefs in shades no straight man could view without Day of the Triffids instant blindness scenarios striking them sightless.

Even as he got home from work in the early afternoon, he knew that there was bound to be something. There usually was, with Sherlock. 

......................

What he had not expected, however, was to stride through the front door and see in the living room the chairs and sofa had exchanged places and a very, very nude Sherlock, reclining on the sofa with his curls artfully arranged and plucking grapes from a large bunch while holding a lyre under his arm. 

John's head thumped back against the door to the flat. Multiple facts crossed his mind in a flashing sequence. 

"Grapes, really!... You can tell you're a Brit, and not Jewish, foreskin untampered with... God almighty will you look at the length of him? By which I mean his height, readers, not his -that. God, almighty will you look at the length of him? By which I mean his - THAT... Trimmed, not shaved. Reddish, interesting... Chest hair sparse, well I know that from the flat sharing and the sheet wearing and when he was shot..."

The thoughts were still whirring and John decided he had to make himself known, if only to find out what the hell was going on. Of course, why even ask? It was Freddie Fucking Baxter. There were sketches pinned onto the wall behind where the sofa had been. All Sherlock, all nudes, and far too many of them with Sherlock stretching or bending down for John's comfort level. 

There was really no need for all that. 

Timed, quick scribbles and in depth detailed studies, fully realised. Damn it, they were good, even John could see it. 

Freddie was using a colour wash to block in some areas in what appeared to be a preparatory study for a properly executed painting, probably in oils. He was wearing a white T-shirt which only emphasised the peachy young skin and the pleasing curves of his biceps. He had a paint splash artfully daubed on his cheek. His jeans were old and soft and thin and clung to him. John knew he had never, ever looked like that at Freddie's age.

'Shouldn't you have asked your model to clean that splash off your cheek, Freddie?', John observed sourly?

Freddie grinned. 

'Good thought. Sherlock, would you do the honours?' And he strode over to Sherlock and knelt down beside the sofa, his lips now disturbingly not altogether distant from the key convergence in Sherlock's legs where his cock lay smooth and soft. 

Sherlock smiled an indulgent smile and leaned across to wipe the seductive smear of burnt sienna from Freddie's cheek. 

John choked slightly, turning it into a cough that fooled no one, least of all himself. 

Freddie sauntered his way back to the easel. 

'You were right about that, John. Except for one small thing, more terminology than anything but I don't want to underplay his... Significance. 

Sherlock isn't my model. He's my new Muse....'

John sighed. Sherlock's smirk deepened.

 

..............

 

By the time Freddie had skipped off that evening to "meet up with some old friends from Manchester" ("sponge off them, more like", thought John), Sherlock did at least have clothes on again. 

John made the tea and slapped Sherlock's cup down in front of him, then retreated to his Chair that Was In the Wrong Place. 

'So. Is he staying long?' 

Sherlock, flicking through John's regimental quarterly magazine with rapt interest (quite a few nice pictures of assault courses and straining squaddies carrying parts of gun carriages), hummed a little. 

'Mmm, not really sure. He's got the internship for another ten weeks. After that he'll either move on somewhere else or get a job here.' 

'And if he gets a job here he would get a house share or something like that?'

'I should think so. Most young people do, these days, don't they?'

'So, could he not do that now?' 

'He doesn't need to. He's staying here.'

John looked down at his tea miserably, and gave it a doleful stir.

'Yeah. I know. It's just....Do you think he's... Do you think his intentions are... Good?'

Sherlock leaned back and smirked. There was no other word for it. 

'I very much doubt it. At least, I hope not. Pray for me, John. My soul is at risk from the Devil in Andrew Christian underpants.' 

John looked away. 

'Fine. Just... Be careful. With... Precautions and testing and all that. He seems a fairly... generous person.' 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow archly.

'You mean he's at best a slut, at worst a rent boy and somewhere in the middle he's a twink after a sugar daddy? Which presumably you think is me.' 

John shook his head vigorously. 

'I'm not suggesting any of those things. But as your friend, and your doctor, I'm just reminding you of the health considerations of... That... with... Him.' 

'Would you like me to inform you when I'm considering taking it up the arse so you can go through your checklist. Or maybe examine my supply of condoms and lube?'

Sherlock seemed angry now and John wasn't quite sure what had changed to make him so. 

'I am not a child, John. And we are not a couple. I am more than capable of knowing what is, and what is not, safe, and of deciding on my own account whether or not I wish to entertain it.'

'Yeah. I know. I didn't mean to interfere.' 

'Good. Thankyou. Now I really must go and get ready. Freddie's promised to take me to a club this evening with some of his friends.' 

John looked at his watch. 

'You've hours before that?'

Sherlock was sauntering out. His voice floated back through the door. 

'He said its a special theme night, and I don't yet have any fishnets...Mrs Hudson's don't fit.'

...............

John had to admit that Sherlock looked better than a man in his late thirties had any right to in fishnets. Where they had come from, and the leather shorts come to that, he had no idea, and he certainly wasn't going to ask. Once he'd glimpsed the ensemble, he escaped to his room, to sit out the duration until they left. 

He'd caught a glimpse of Freddie too. He was bare chested and liberally covered in glitter. Both he and Sherlock had been downing shots of tequila, and were giggling in what John felt was a very juvenile fashion. He was relieved when he heard the door shut, though it only took a few minutes to change his mood to morose introspection.

It was worse when they got back at two in the morning. Sherlock was sick on the stairs and then Freddie trod on it with his bare feet (why were they even bare, there was no REASON for them to be bare), and John, thoroughly woken up and not in the best of moods, found himself mopping vomit in the small hours while the pissed up leather fairies tumbled into Sherlock's room. 

All John heard after that were muffled shrieks and bumps, with the occasional giggle. When John finally got back to bed, he screwed up some tissue to make makeshift ear plugs, turned up the World Service and went to bed determined to drown out the worst of it.

..............

There was no sound from Sherlock's room the next morning. 

John was desperate to find out what was going on with these two?

John also dreaded knowing what was going on with these two. 

John was thinking of opening that bedroom door. But it was wrong. But he wanted to. 

He opened the door.


	4. The Passion of the Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ummm. There's vomit. And religious offence, possibly. And menstruation as political art. Yeah, so ...enjoy!!!! 

The bedroom door swung open blessedly quietly. 

Well. That was one thing confirmed. Two bodies in Sherlock's bed. Two arms encircling Freddie's narrow boyish frame. Long arms. Sherlock's arms. Sherlock's chin on the blond hair, the hateful hair. Freddie's head tucked into Sherlock's chest, tightly. 

The violence of John's reaction took even him by surprise. 

This time, it was his turn to throw up. 

.................

Doing it actually in the doorway of Sherlock's room had two predictable effects.

One, there was sick in the doorway. 

Two, the snuggly ones woke up in a bit of a hurry and wrinkled their noses. 

'Pooh! Sherlock, your flatmate isn't housetrained. Can't you teach him to vom in his own room. Some of us are trying to sleep.'

Sherlock didn't look as though he found it funny. His eyes flashed as he looked at John. Guilt and confusion mixed. He leapt up to help John clear up the mess, his ability to do this being one advantage of being totally immune to the concept of "squeamish". 

Unfortunately the over enthusiasm meant that he'd forgotten one important detail. 

John saw before he did. He stared, and then crossed his arms.

'Sherlock, do you always go to bed fully dressed from the waist down?' 

Sherlock looked down as if he might find nudity, but instead found only tight black jeans.

'Oh.' 

John's eyes narrowed.  
..............

TrouserGate gave John slight pause from his previous train of thought, that which had focused on Sherlock in a sexual relationship with Freddie. Only slight, but the trousers made no sense with the bed sharing, not really. So what was Sherlock up to? 

...............

John went. Freddie said to Sherlock that John seemed a very angry man these days. Sherlock agreed. They high-fived. Sherlock couldn't quite manage the actions so it ended up more as pat-a-cake but Freddie just laughed and kissed him. Sherlock squirmed. Freddie deepened the assault and a hand disappeared into Sherlock's jeans. Only their tightness prevented Roving Freddie from touching down on the surface of Planet Sherlock Penis. 

................

The next inflammatory episode came a week later, with Freddie's participation in an exhibition in an Important and Self Absorbed Hoxton gallery, his first after his post grad course finished. There were three rising star new artists represented:

Saskia Mundon, as her centrepiece, made towering edifices from sanitary towels bound with thin strips of VAT returns soaked in menstrual blood. Her piece was meant, she said, to represent the outrage of women's menstrual products being taxed as a luxury, whilst men's razor blades were classed as a necessity, receiving preferential VAT terms. The increasing odour of the work, as the days went past, signified the decomposition of the patriarchy through the fight and the spilled blood of women.

Taliesin Glendwyr, for his, made a giant egg, several metres high, entirely composed from actual eggs of the various birds of the British countryside. Sadly, the dreamy dunce omitted to notice that any such removal of birds eggs from the wild is completely illegal in Britain and was in custody for the opening night while he tried to prove that the eggs used were the property of his great great uncle Sir Davey, and he'd found them in a drawer in a bureau at Tanwyr Castle, the family seat on the border between Merionydd and (nant) Conwy.

Freddie. Well. Those preparatory sketches came good. Freddie Baxter had produced a triptych. The theme was a traditional religious and Christian one, with a visual representation of Christ being tempted in the wilderness, the Last Supper, and then, in the centre, Christ being crucified. 

Sherlock thought he looked pretty good with a tiny loincloth and crown of thorns, though he could have done without the nails in hands and feet part. Too much like Serbia for his taste, it made him shiver slightly. He did also notice that the Devil on the wilderness screen didn't look entirely like Freddie himself. 

The show was a roaring success, and an anonymous bidder snapped up the triptych. No one could find out who it was, there was only the front of a shell company and a bland lawyer fronting it. The company logo was a foxes head, and the company motto was "Strive, that You are Missed".....

..............

Freddie was rich. There hadn't been a set asking price for the triptych and Saatchi was very keen, as were several bored and exiled Arab potentates. So the bidding war had meant that Mystery Mister Foxy had paid over four hundred thousand pounds for the work of an unknown postgrad from Manchester. 

There was no interest in any of Freddie's other works. Only the triptych. Of Sherlock. As a murdered Messiah. Freddie wondered about that, but not as much as he wondered how to blow four hundred k. 

John expected Freddie would leave. He had the best part of half a million quid. That ought to buy at least a shoebox, surely? 

Freddie didn't leave. Freddie stayed, and drank champagne, and slept with Sherlock who might have trousers on but might have no trousers on, and John was just about getting sick of the whole damn thing. 

John decided. He could get no sense out of Sherlock. He would have to talk to Freddie. Man to man. 

Oh, God, this was going to be ghastly......


	5. Out of the mouths of babes.....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Freddie have their little chat.....

Sherlock was at Barts, poking fingers in eyeballs and flaying the flesh of people he would avoid in life, but who fascinated him once they were unable to label him, taunt him or laugh at him. 

Freddie, cushioned by the fat cheque from the shady corporation, was getting under John's feet. And up his nose. 

John decided that today was the day for that little chat he and Freddie needed to have. He was not looking forward to it. Sulky youth he could do without, and he hated feeling like a lecturing Dad, even if he did have a leaning towards a comfy cardigan and an armchair which compromised him.

Freddie was lounging on Sherlock's bed, as usual. John knocked loudly and brightly on the door. Freddie didn't answer, just shouted "Come!" Yeah, I bet you do, John muttered, and opened the door. 

Those fucking white underpants. Why couldn't Freddie just put on some clothes like a normal man? 

'Um. Yeah. Do you think we could, have, well, a quick word? In the living room? With, perhaps, clothes?'

'Sure. Just give me five minutes.'

John didn't want to know what he needed five minutes for, but was more than happy to retreat.

..................

The first part of the conversation didn't go badly. Freddie was dressed, for a start. John had a feeling that Freddie had been waiting for something to be said by John, and he was unusually polite, save for the pouting lower lip and fiddling with his fringe. 

Freddie explained that he had a photo shoot to be at in an hour, and John fixed him with what he knew to be a Steely Captain Watson gimlet stare and explained to Freddie that this didn't need to take long. 

Then they got past the social chit chat and into the meat of the matter.

No, Freddie didn't know how long he was staying. That "depended".

John frowned. 

'Depends on what?'

'On you, grandad, obviously.' 

Next minute, Freddie was pinned by his neck against the wall. 

'If - if - you ever call me that again, you little twat, you will, I promise regret it.'

Freddie was in absolutely no doubt that John definitely meant it. He nodded furiously. He was permitted to reconnect feet with floorboards. 

John sat down in the armchair, folded his arms and gestured Freddie to sit in Sherlock's leather and chrome counterpart. 

'Go on then, sunshine. Why does how long you burden my existence with your annoying and unnecessary presence depend on me. Enlighten me, please?'

Freddie shook his head at John. 

'God, I really don't know why he bothers with you. You are literally the thickest man I've ever met, and Sherlock about the smartest I've met, AND he's hot as fuck.'

Sensing his words were causing John's fingers to drum on the chair arms in a somewhat military fashion, Freddie rushed on. 

'You haven't a clue, have you? This is all for you. This whole thing. Me, him, bedroom antics. John, I sleep with everyone. Every. One. I like it. I like people and I like sex. Boy, girl, either is good. I'd probably have sex with livestock if it weren't for the fact that I do like my partner to be aware and consenting. 

'Listen. I lived with a man called Henry up in Manchester before I came here. A few years older than you, Henry is. He fucked up his whole life because he couldn't come to terms with the simple fact that he was gay. But you know what, John? Henry might have lost his job and his home for a while, as well as a partner who loved him, but Henry did at least suck cock and give a decent handjob to his chosen amour. He might have refused at the final hurdle but he was prepared to give everything else a go. 

'You, John, you are more in denial than he was, and I'd never think I could say that about anyone. 

'We're alike, you and I. Both of us are bisexual. But I'm comfortable with it, and you, my resentful friend, are deluding yourself.

'You creep around trying to discover if Sherlock has a sex life as though he's about 14 and you're his Dad. You treat me like I've done something wrong for taking what he can offer me, when I'm the normal healthy adult here. You act as though he can't feel things the way others do, when it's obvious. It's all obvious. And you're just too stupid or too cruel to either give him hope or cut him loose.'

John grabbed him by the shoulders. 

'You were sleeping with him! You can't be trusted!'

Freddie laughed, but the laugh was hollow.

'Why not? Why not, John? Sherlock Holmes has not had sex with me. Sherlock Holmes, I can confidently state, has not had sex with any man. Nor any woman, either, though I think even you worked out his lack of interest in that direction.

'Sherlock Holmes is not, however, asexual. Nor is he incapable of romantic love.' 

John was staring now.

'He's fucking head over heels in love with you, John, and the rest of the world would really appreciate it if you would make up for our misery at that depressing and inexplicable fact by please just jumping the bones of the man and getting over your ridiculous hangups.'

Freddie just shook his head now, and began fiddling with oddments on the large desk. 

...........

John sat there. He didn't say anything, and he stared still, mainly at the floor. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, and then he shut it again, only to open and shut it once more a few seconds later. 

After a couple of minutes he did start speaking, trying to explain why he found it so difficult to be openly bisexual. But it was clear that Freddie's short attention span had long since left the building, and he was flicking through the army magazines, raising his eyebrows at the telltale oily marks on certain, most favoured pages. How had it taken John so long, and why was someone like him, Freddie, needed to point out the blatantly obvious? No wonder Sherlock was willing to go through with this great charade.

..........

John tried to pluck up courage to ask Freddie to leave him and Sherlock, for some privacy. He didn't need to. When they emerged into the corridor, Freddie winked at him.

'I'll be packed and out of here in fifteen. My work here is done. But I want an invite to the wedding and you'd better make sure I'm not sat by the bogs. Oh yeah, and invite some decent man flesh will you. Not all stodgy policemen and braying women? I want young, beautiful, and make sure the gents is pristine at nine am because by ten pm it's going to require a deep clean.'

John was still looking shell shocked, and just mutely nodded.

..................

Fifteen minutes later, Freddie Baxter had disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived, just three hundred and eighty thousand pounds richer. Twenty k was a lot to spend in less than a week but Freddie would just smile and say what could he do, he wasn't used to handling money and it was nice to be able to treat your friends. 

Fifteen minutes after that, summoned unknown to John by a text from Freddie, Sherlock was walking up to 221B, feeling more nervous than he ever had about anything. 

When he walked in the door of the flat, John was sitting in his armchair, head in his hands.

 

'Hallo, John.'


	6. The last slice of the cucumber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally understand each other.

John couldn't really look Sherlock straight in the eye. If he had done, he would have seen a look of pure fear in the pale face, only thinly masked by the usual veneer of bland indifference and studied arrogance. 

Instead John muttered something inconsequential and escaped to the kitchen to make tea. Always tea. The whole history of Holmes and Watson, Sherlock and John, all wrapped up in a pale tan coloured liquid in mugs or in cups. Or, as when Sherlock's experiment with flaming Sambucca went slightly wrong, sipped from a saucer by those whose mouth was too burned to cope with a mouthful from a cup for three days. John's threat of a Tommy Tippee beaker didn't go down too favourably and resulted in Shouting and Throwing Things.

Returning to the living room, he placed a mug on the large desk close to where Sherlock stood, staring out of the window. John had almost sat down in his chair when Sherlock span round and pointed at him. 

'Freddie asked me to come. I have three corpses defrosting right now. A guilty man will walk free if I do not complete my work with them. Plus. Molly will be very displeased, which will mean the cessation of cheesy Wotsits provision for the foreseeable. So, John. Please. Talk to me.' 

John frowned, staring at his knees. Which while not unattractive, did seem to be acting as a way of not looking at Sherlock quite a bit today.

'What do I say? That I think it was a mean trick, bringing Freddie into the house? That the flushed rabbit driven from its burrow will panic and do anything to be allowed back into the safety of the long grass? That it's really utter shite of you to play games like this. Freddie really likes you, and you really used him. And I don't care about how many strings you pulled for him. He's twenty four and if I read him right, he's probably got a shitty story to tell about his sexual history. You shouldn't play with people like a cat with a sweet wrapper. It isn't fair. And that's before you get to me. I - well I - have... feelings. And I feel hurt that you would play with my feelings in this way. So. That's it.'

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away. John stared now, not at his knees, but at the pale cream of his neck, the black curls. That small mole. The slim, graceful silhouette.

'I'm sorry.' 

John choked slightly. 

'Sorry? You're never sorry. The expression on your face when you say it is like the expression on mine when I tried to regard you as my mate, my bro, my pal. It doesn't compute.' 

Sherlock made a frustrated sound. 

'Then what can I do, John? I AM sorry. Sorry that Freddie was ever needed to be involved. Sorry that I was desperate enough to do it anyway. Sorry that I love you so fucking much and you are so oblivious or so unwilling to humiliate yourself in your own blinkered eyes that I have to try to make you jealous with ridiculous stunts like this. 

'Sorry that you seem not to love me enough to make those things surmountable. Sorry that I can't offer you the cosy friendship you seem determined to stick to. I could once, John. Once it was enough for me, God knows I have few enough friends, and none that I hold in such esteem as I do you. But for some time - for a long time, John, it has not been enough and I cannot continue as I am now. 

'So. You may accept my apology, or you may not. I cannot control that. But know that it is genuine, and heartfelt, and do not doubt that. 

'If you wish, you can remain at Baker Street for as long as you wish. I will move to Eaton Square in the short term. And then - who knows. Perhaps the East Wind will come and get me? It gets us all in the end, Mycroft says.'

.........

'Shut up.' 

John's hands were clenched now. Frustration burned brightly in his eyes and seemed to glow out of his pores, thousands of them. His breathing was erratic. His was frowning and smiling at the same time. John was furious. Oh. Was that bad, or good, Sherlock wondered? Maybe it was both. John was conflicted enough to be both. He was interesting like that. 

'Shut up and listen. I'm not going to say this twice. I think you're arrogant, and you can be a bully. You are rude and thoughtless much of the time. You have no respect for other people's feelings, or their property. You want to prove you're clever and the saving lives is always second to that, it's the solving of the puzzle that really makes you tick. You don't get off on deaths like Sally thinks, but nor do you have any fear or hangups about death. Which makes you careless with your own health. 

'In short, you're a pretty unattractive character in many ways. You'd need to be a pretty damaged, compromised kind of person to not only find that attractive, but also find it complementary to their own character.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again when he saw John's expression. It was an expression that Sherlock, who could read any expression on any face at a single glance, could not begin to decipher. His very own uncrackable code.

John looked strangely satisfied that he had Shut Sherlock Up with Just a Look. 

'As I was saying, compromised and damaged individual. 

'Your behaviour was unethical. That did not mean that it was not effective, that it did not achieve its ends. 

'I do love you. I'm not ashamed of you. If you need me to prove it, we can go down into Baker Street now, right now, and I'll suck your cock in the street. I'll call the tabloids. I'll suck your cock in Speedy's, as long as you promise to keep us well away from the deep fat frier and that rotisserie thing. 

'Sherlock, you were right. I was fucking eaten up with jealousy and it's made me realise that I felt that not because someone was monopolising my flatmate, but because they were taking what could be mine, what I wanted to be mine. 

'So. Will you not move out? Will you give me chance to try to be a braver man than I was with Sholto, with guys at uni, with boys at school? I can't promise I'll find it easy, but want to try?'

..............

Sherlock looked overwhelmed with some emotion John couldn't read at all. It was part fear, maybe but also part disbelief. 

He reached out long fingers, they were shaking, John specifically noticed that. He watched transfixed as the fingers moved towards him. He thought they would touch his arm, maybe in a comforting but letting a person down gently fashion. But they didn't. They moved up, at the last moment, and they cupped the side of his face. Hands so big they could cup most of his head, should that be required, John thought, as a thumb started to softly stroke his cheek. 

'John.' 

Sherlock's voice sounded cracked and vulnerable. 

John started to smile a little. Does he want this? Could he want it enough to support me through my hangups and the reactions of family and friends? 

'John.' 

That seemed to be all Sherlock was going to say. He was gazing into John's eyes now. Sherlock'd seemed greener, his pale cat-like alien eyes shining.

'Come with me?'

John couldn't quite process the fact he'd just said that, let alone waited for a nod and then slowly padded out of the living room and into Sherlock's bedroom. 

.............

Once in the bedroom, Sherlock kicked off his shoes and socks and curled up on the bed, blinking at John from behind his eyelashes. John wasn't quite sure of how to deal with that, he'd expected more kissing while they stood. So he held out a hand and gestured for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock unfurled himself and stood, looking strangely young and shy. 

John beckoned him again and Sherlock came close, and John took him into an embrace that said everything silently about what was really the nature of this relationship. And with the embrace, there came the sweet thud in John's stomach of feeling growing hardness against his belly, against his hip. His own cock was well on the way too, and even thinking about that was Pavlovian and the hardness grew. Just instinctively, he gave a small shove, his bulge fitting neatly under Sherlock's, and was gratified to hear a hiss from Sherlock. 

John took his mouth then, with his own. He murmured against Sherlock's lips.

'He must have been tempting, though. Freddie. You must have been tempted? You were sleeping with him.'

'He snored, John, like a case of bad plumbing. And he fussed so over his appearance. You don't snore. And you aren't vain. I can't bear vanity.'

John's eyebrows nearly hit his "without vanity hairline". Sherlock clearly had no self awareness of his own vanity. The bottles of 'product' for Sherlock's locks teetered precariously on the bathroom shelves, leaving only a tiny space for John's Tesco Finest (tiny bit vain in an own brand kind of a way) shampoo and conditioner.

'Anyway', the oblivious Sherlock continued, nuzzling at John's stout neck with his swan-like grace, 'many superficially attractive persons have decided at one time or another that they believe me to be an aesthetically pleasing target for their attentions. This is natural. But they have all been dull, composed of a single layer personality. They possess neither the utility that you bring, nor the Millefeuille of your psyche. The doctor who kills. The healer who misses the war. The man in the terrible jumper who would break your wrist if you look at him a little funny. But most of all, John. Most of all, none of them have assets like yours. 

Saying this, he pressed closer still, if that were possible, and his hands could now be classified as officially 'Wandering'. He felt the muscles in John's back, and kneaded as he renewed his kiss. He brought his hand to John's chest, and played with his army tags, outlined his shoulder blade, massaged the nipples. 

John groaned. It felt strange, still, this sensation. Of a man, of a friend, transforming into a lover. And yet, he was craving more, more of that hardness rutting against him. He wanted to feel that weight in his hand, compare it, worship it, have it show him what it could do with praise and beseeching and all manner of soft touches and firm strokes. 

Maybe, just maybe, he even wanted to feel that weight on him and in him. It troubled him, that thought, his ingrained ideas about male and female roles nagging unwanted at his unconscious but all the while the want growing and consuming him.

There was more, much more. But for now, there was sweat and joy and sticky sweet relief, and after hands were wiped and breath caught, there was a magical night curled up together, too hot to stay so tightly entwined, but too desperate to devour the other that neither would break that embrace for one single second, until the inevitable moment when they were both desperate for a wee and raced each other to the bathroom, and then got each other off against the sink.

...............

Later, John wrote to Freddie, thanking him for his willingness to help things along. 

The letter came back. Freddie had moved on again, like a tinsel tumbleweed, rolling on to the next new experience, something to give him new memories, perhaps. Or maybe, something to help him forget the old ones.

................

They had a son, later. 

................

They called him Freddie. 

After all, he wouldn't have happened, they as a couple wouldn't have happened, without the blond boy with the perfect smile and the charm who never stopped still long enough for anyone to snare him in their net. 

Had they done so, he might have crumbled to dust in their fingers.


End file.
